It's all fine again - with a minor adaptation
by gothica vanessa
Summary: John awakes and knows he has an unexpected but undeniably serious problem... Starts after Sherlock's return. Follow-up in my 'It's all fine' universe, but can be read on its own.
1. Chapter 1

**IT'S ALL FINE AGAIN **—** WITH ONE MINOR ADAPTATION…**

_Aka a jump forward in time in my 'It's all fine' universe. _

_Warning? I'm just having fun with them, because my mind gets silly sometimes, and I don't think they will get hurt in the process anyway ;) _

**ONE**

JOHN

John awoke and knew he had an unexpected but bloody serious problem.

He just had had the most uneventful dream: he and Sherlock, looking at each other across their table, for a silent, time-suspended moment. Nothing particularly exciting, right? But it had felt comfortable, and soothing — because for once he had dreamt of an alive Sherlock. And it had been very vivid.

And his body had surprisingly, but quite obviously, reacted to it!

_Bit not good._ _Big time._

Panic crept in, and John took a deep breath to calm down.

Pragmatically, he rationalised, this was understandable. Damn problematic, but quite logical, all considered.

John knew that he loved Sherlock, nothing new here after all. The genius brat had been the most important person in his life, since about a few days (scratch that) hours (scratch that too) _minutes_ after meeting him. The attraction had been inescapable, gravity-like, right from the start; and had never diminished, in the contrary.

But John had suddenly lost Sherlock, for what he had believed to be forever — even if a part of his brain had always maintain hope against all hope (but that little voice in his head had grown weaker with each day passing without Sherlock reappearing; and more than a f*& #$% _year_ had gone by…)

Then — BANG! — two weeks ago, John had been granted his miracle, and Sherlock had come back.

So. Think.

No matter (or thanks to?) the hurt, the anger, the betrayal, and all the doubts he hadn't completely been able to shake off yet, OF COURSE, once the shock would have settled, his body would feel a pull that had never been there before, would need to reassure itself about Sherlock's irrefutable yet still unbelievable, dreamlike presence, and would crave Sherlock's closeness to the point that they could never be too close enough…

See? Logical.

There would probably be help groups for that kind of situation, if people were more regularly known to come back from their grave…

So: nothing to worry about for now. Surely, this was just _a phase_. Uncalled for, irrelevant, awkward and stupid and 'my life was complicated enough already, thank you' kind of phase; but a logical phase he would have to get through as quick as possible, simple as that.

He just had Sherlock back; he wasn't going to fuck it all over (no pun intended) and risk losing that man again…

In their early days, John had used to wonder if Sherlock might be gay — after all, anyone they ever met had appeared to assume so.

It's only a few months ago, when the new secretary of the surgery had in passing hinted that she believed that John was gay, that John had realised that he had done by then the same mistake as everyone else. People always needed to put others in neatly labelled boxes, to give sense to their world; and so, as a man, if you didn't seem interested in flirting with women, and if you were never seen in the company of any woman, then people automatically catalogued you as gay. That you just didn't give a damn about sex in general or that you were too heartbroken to get in that mood were never considered as options.

Then there had been Irene Adler, and John had thought that maybe Sherlock was in fact straight.

But then, it had dawned on him that, _if_ Sherlock actually bent one way or the other to start with, it wouldn't matter anyway. Because Sherlock _wouldn't_ be available — be it because he was genetically wired that way, or because he had rewired himself because it would be _so_ beneath him to succumb to any kind of unreasoned desires.

Imagine: Sherlock, having any kind of libido? Not in this realm, huh.

John would have figured this one out even without Mycroft's (irrefutable — the man knew by one glance if you had slept on a sofa or a lilo, remember… and don't forget that he had more than probably always had more than enough CCTV's surveying his little brother) allusion: Sherlock hated to have to sleep *_but when he did it was for days on end_*, or eat *_but when he did he ate a week worth in one hour_* — Shut up! — and more than probably despised himself anytime he needed to use the loo…

No, really, the idea only that Sherlock would ever willingly give in to more than the absolutely minimum necessities to keep his amazing brain working felt truly surreal.

*_A shame though, with the passion he was capable of, and with those long fingers, and that perfect O-mouth, and_—*

Damn! Where the hell were those thoughts coming from?

_*Remember that that passion was generally somehow related to more or less decaying body parts; and that those fingers were only gentle on the violin — and even then, not always; and that that mouth was mostly full of lethal venom.*_

John took another deep breath to clear his head.

There. Fine. He could do it. The battle plan was simple but should be sufficient: cold showers, breathing exercises, getting out now and then — Sherlock was used after all to his occasional need for 'some air'... He would be fine. _They_ would be fine.

He just had to ignore the fact that he shared a flat with the most observant person on Earth… and pray (that thought only — because he only thought of God in very, very desperate situations — being a real give-away of the seriousness of the situation, he could admit to himself…)


	2. Chapter 2

**TWO **

**A WEEK LATER…**

SHERLOCK

Things were not as they should be. It was unsettling. And much, much more, to tell the truth.

Sherlock had thought that with his return (after the inevitable lots of tiresome, repetitive explanations) everything would simply fall back into how it had used to be.

He had known a few people would sincerely mourn him and had felt a momentary (yet irrelevant, because he had no other option anyway) twinge of guilt about it; but it hadn't occurred to him that their pain wouldn't be 'cured' by his return. Happy ending implied that life went on somehow _happily_, right? Wasn't it how it was supposed to work?

And, as far as nearly everything and everyone was concerned, he had been right. The people he knew had been genuinely happy — even Anderson, mind you. He had moved back in right away at Baker Street, and clients were queuing once more in front of their door for their help. They were still 'invited' on cases by the Yard. Even the papers that had dragged his name through the mud following his disappearance were now praising him (not that he found this bit in the least important; but he was enumerating facts, and that was a fact).

But the most important — what had been the hardest to quit, what he had missed the most, and what he had fought to be free to reclaim — felt amiss.

John.

John wasn't fine.

And so Sherlock wasn't too, then.

He had first thought it must simply be from shock, but the situation wasn't improving by the day, on the contrary…

Things that had used to be easy and natural felt now awkward and forced. There was distance where there had used to be instinctive, direct connection. And it felt sometimes as if John actually couldn't stand his presence.

And it was actually painful.

Because — Sherlock was by now used to admit to himself — John was the one Sherlock cared for the most, and by far.

(Not that Sherlock liked that fact — frankly; it was infuriating, the way John had sort of taken over everything… In the beginning, Sherlock had even tried to build a separate mansion in his mind dedicated to John. But John had kept popping back in uninvited, and after months of struggling Sherlock had finally abandoned the project to fix him somewhere. And so, for about three years now, John didn't have 'a room' — no one would be large enough anyway probably. But wherever Sherlock went, John was with him. It had sometimes felt embarrassing — for example when John would be able to prove that some conversation he claimed they had had, in fact, had never taken place. But it had helped keeping him sane and focused, for those long, long thirteen months when the only John he could talk to had been the one in his head.)

And caring was not an advantage, indeed. Because now, Sherlock wanted to talk to the real John; but it seemed that he wasn't available anymore, unfortunately.

Sherlock though didn't regret his decision. He had made the only good choice possible to save them all by then, and it had been worth it. And even if the price to pay was that John had estranged himself from him, it would still be worth it; because the alternative, them being dead, _John_ being dead, was simply too horrible to considerate.

But Sherlock had never been one to surrender without a fight, right. So, he would try to fix this. The time for action had come, before it would be too late. He had no real idea how to act though, because sentimental issues weren't his forte; but he would try his hardest to mend what needed mending.


	3. Chapter 3

JOHN

On his way back home from the surgery (John had taken again on working long hours there after Sherlock's 'death', having decided it made him at least useful, if not better, and occupied his thoughts enough for him not to lose his sanity), John decided that, so far, he was dealing nicely enough with that new situation of his. In a week, the unusual pull towards Sherlock hadn't disappeared — yet! — but it wasn't getting worse, right! (John had learned to focus on the bright side of everything.)

True, his eyes tended to fall on the streets more often on long, thin, dark-haired men than on the usual skirts and cleavages; but, to be honest, that was so for months (he had always been on the look-out during Sherlock's 'absence', constantly hoping for a miracle). And true, there was now a new edge to Sherlock's voice; but Sherlock's voice had always held hypnotising powers anyway…

So, he was doing fine. He just had to keep avoiding looking at Sherlock as a general rule and remember to count in his head from 0 to 100 if he really had to meet Sherlock's eyes.

John walked in with more assurance than he had had in the past week, and headed to the kitchen to prepare two mugs of tea.

And then, he had to take his head out of the sand…

/ / /

"John?"

John nearly broke a mug from Sherlock's unexpected breathing out of his name; he hadn't heard Sherlock approaching. He turned, and then tensed, understanding by the way Sherlock filled the doorway that he was literally being cornered by a seemingly nervous, unsure, detective (and an unsure Sherlock was not only surprising, but very worrying too generally).

"I hadn't foreseen some… consequences… of my disappearance…"

_Oh no. Big NO. Please NO._

"Obviously, I… miscalculated something, but I fail to understand what and…"

Relief. John released the breath he hadn't noticed he had been holding in.

"Well, you know I'm not exactly versed in (waving one hand in the air between them) all this. But even I can sense that something's amiss and… How does that saying go? I can't make bread without butter — shouldn't it be flour? — Anyway… If you feel angry, then be angry. If you need to sit down and talk, then let's talk; I can be patient and even repetitive when needed. But stop avoiding me."

John decided his best option was to play dumb. "I don't understand what you're hinting at. I'm right here, making tea for the both of us, am I not?"

Sherlock insisted. "You know exactly what I mean. You're guarded. You never were before. You're shutting me out."

John threw his hands in the air out of frustration. "So what? Can't I have one little secret, like everyone?"

"No!"

Sherlock's horrified, startled face would have been quite funny — or truly infuriating — if it hadn't been actually painful to witness… The glitch didn't stay long though, and got quickly replaced by a flash of (for once mis)understanding.

"Oh wait. Is that it? You miss your privacy? You've grown accustomed to being on your own and… I'm working on your nerves? Should I have moved out instead of back in?"

John wondered where the hell Sherlock was coming up with such an incongruous idea.

"Sherlock, don't be ridiculous. You told me once this was the first place in ages that felt like home to you."

And truth was, the flat _was_ Sherlock's. It had been Sherlock's, from the start, and had never stopped being Sherlock's, even when the violin had painfully kept silent and when the experiments had all been gone to never return… John had never had a problem with it, because the way it was Sherlock's was what made it feel like home to him. He had used to think that the fact that the flat just screamed Sherlock was the reason why Mycroft had kept paying for his half of the rent; you bet he had felt rather stupid when it had dawned on him that it had simply been because he had known all along that his brother would get back.

Sherlock just eyed him even more suspiciously, "Are _you_ planning to move out then?"

"What? No! Why would you think—"

A memory hit him — now wasn't the first time Sherlock looked anxious about him moving out — and John realised exactly how his recent behaviour might look like in Sherlock's eyes: he never looked at him for more than a few seconds, he constantly escaped the flat, and he had flinched or froze the few times they had accidentally touched… — definitely more alike to a "I can't stand being in your presence" attitude than to a "I'm SO happy you're back" mood, huh. And John felt guilty. Because it was plain to see that it actually hurt Sherlock — the man, not his massive ego.

John deliberately came close to Sherlock, laid one hand on one of his friend's tensed, crossed arms, and met his eyes.

"Sherlock. I _am_ happy you're back, and here. Do not even dare to think otherwise."

Sherlock though seemed to need more than a declaration to believe him. So hiding was not an option any more. John wouldn't speak, of course, but he would have to throw the dices and see how they'd land.

John just sighed in defeat —"Fine" — took the two teas to the table, and sat down, remembering all the deducing ever done at that table and knowing that Sherlock couldn't misunderstand what he was offering.

Less than two seconds later, Sherlock was sitting opposite him, eyes dead serious and zooming on him, fingers shaping that trademark triangle before his lips, and John was overwhelmed with just how much he had missed _that _— being deduced.

It was truly frightening right now, because John _didn't_ want Sherlock to find everything out; but it was inescapable, as always.


	4. Chapter 4

SHERLOCK

Everyone was irritated, or vexed, or saddened, or anxious by being deduced. But not John. Never John.

Normally, John was clearly _thrilled_ whenever Sherlock turned his deducing skills on him, and exuded an air of both challenge _and_ expectation which was so uniquely _John_.

But now, John was _uncomfortable_, for God's sake!

So: John was _allowing_ him to discover what was going on, if he could, but in fact wasn't willing to share, and even truly hoped that Sherlock wouldn't find it (whatever _it_ was) out. Which meant John indeed still cared, if he gave him a chance to bring out into the light something he would prefer staying in the dark; but which made no sense, because why would John try to hide something from him if it wasn't BAD anyway? And which only made Sherlock even more worried, and even more intent on uncovering John's now just acknowledged damn secret.

And the more Sherlock tried to get inside his head, the more John felt obviously more and more uncomfortable.

His eyes were often escaping Sherlock's gaze, even though they always returned (again, a proof of John's good will). There was an odd glint in them, despite the still undeniably recognisable concern, and the pupils were dilating (the day was nearing its end) a bit too fast — he should get John to have his eyes checked, just in case.

John was shifting and fidgeting on his chair. His breathing was somehow accelerating — was it fear? — and his cheeks were somehow flushed — was it shame? — It was frustrating, to see all those details and be unable to make sense out of them!

And then, it clicked.

_No way!_

_Not John. Please, not John!_

But, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, right? Sherlock couldn't tell if his brain had worked it out from recognition from his past or from a last new hint from John he had unconsciously noted, but he knew.

And, for the first time in his life, Sherlock wished he was wrong.

He desperately went to grasp John's wrist, willing that last clue to undermine his certainty, but John's arms swiftly retreated before he could get a hold of one of them — an admission in itself; as final a proof as if he had actually taken John's pulse.

JOHN

Sherlock in his deducing limbo couldn't care less about tea and his mug stayed untouched, but John was taking now and then a few sips from his own: it gave him some countenance, right?

It quickly turned truly surreal though, because it looked exactly like his dream from a week ago, them sitting here in silence. Worse, it _felt_ like it too, because John was discovering, now that he was willing himself to take his guards down, that he was indeed having in reality the same tingling reaction as in his dream. And the more intense Sherlock's gaze turned while analysing him, the more John got self-conscious. And the more John got self-conscious, the more Sherlock's gaze intensified. Ever heard of a vicious circle? The atmosphere turned suffocating.

John could pinpoint the exact moment when Sherlock's brain had done the math. He would have been able to do so even without the gasped "No way!" that escaped Sherlock's lips, because Sherlock suddenly turned _livid_. And that was definitely a sight John had never seen; and one he wished he would never have to see again, because the ghastly look on Sherlock's face felt more destructive than actually being wrapped in Semtex or having a gun pointed to his own head.

Sherlock's right hand moved towards his hands, and John promptly hid them out of reach, under the table, feeling more exposed and more ashamed than he had ever been. What had he done! He shouldn't have let Sherlock discover this…


	5. Chapter 5

JOHN

A tensed, gloomy silence set in, while John wouldn't get his eyes up, for a time unquantifiable other than by the fact that it felt far too long, until Sherlock tentatively broke it.

"I don't w—"

John bolted in his chair at the words. Sherlock shouldn't _ever _have to explain himself about this — or worse, apologise. Sherlock shouldn't have to feel like a freak; never, _and especially not in John's presence_ — the idea alone made his stomach twist.

"I _know _you don't want, Sherlock… Remember I didn't want you to find out! Hell, I'm not even sure _I_ want anyway… It's most probably just a phase and—

"A phase?"

John couldn't decide which of the obvious disbelief on Sherlock's face or the undeniable hope in Sherlock's voice was hurting the most. Jeez, this whole thing HAD to pass...

SHERLOCK 

Sherlock's mind was reeling at its maximum speed. He had to find a way to fix this.

Having to deal with the occasional woman had never been particularly enjoyable, all right, but it had never turned that worrying — Sherlock simply knew that, even if John might find one day one who'd stick around for good, he would still have a place in John's life. But now, if HE was the problem, the situation was much, much more problematic. Because how long the thrill and the notion of justice he provided would keep outbalancing a) the inevitable intern struggle provoked by that unexpected shift in character (John had no problem with gay people being gay, of course; but he had always insisted, time and time again, that _he _wasn't — and one just couldn't redefine oneself overnight.) and/or b) the overtime possibly growing frustration about his desires being unreturned, and the consequence thereof: it had happened before…

Suddenly, a part of Sherlock's brain realised that John looked _guilty_. And the way it felt ultimately, definitely wrong was like a blow in his guts and immediately got him out of his scheming. Because if someone was to blame for that seemingly-frivolous, would-be-ridiculous-if-it-wasn't-so-potentially-disastrous situation they were in, it was himself.

Sherlock surely hadn't foreseen this. But there had been warnings; warnings he had acknowledged and thus shouldn't have so quickly dispelled.

After all, people often said that absence made the heart grow fonder (when it wasn't making it just grow cold; Sherlock had always believed there was in fact only cases of the latter, until he had recently realised that the saying held truth too — during his prolonged absence, he had regularly scolded himself for longing for John's (mostly), Mrs Hudson's or Molly's presence). So Sherlock should have realised that if it was affecting him, despite his lone-wolf nature, it might affect John tenfold.

And worse, he had once considered the possibility — more like dreaded it, to be frank. The Woman's comet-like flashing through their lives had, among other things, taught him that it was apparently possible for one to actually yearn for someone of the gender one normally wasn't attracted to, if sentiments (no matter what they were) were involved. Which had brought Victor back at the foreground of his mind, because his fleeing had been at once easily discarded, but the lesson had been dutifully noted and Sherlock wouldn't, couldn't, have history repeat itself — at least not when _John_ was concerned. And so Sherlock had been keeping a very close watch on John for weeks afterwards, until he had felt sure enough, because nothing at all had felt _changing_ in any way, that they were safe; because if jealousy (John _had_ been jealous) and undenied truths talked out loud weren't having any consequences, then nothing would, right?

So. He had been wrong. His disappearance then reappearance had done the trick, apparently. Which meant John's troubled state of mind was entirely his responsibility. He should have thought about this long ago and should have a parade ready, instead of feeling stupidly helpless and panicking. And John definitely shouldn't feel guilty. Sherlock had to make sure that John knew that, right.

"John, I don't w—"

John suddenly met his eyes back straight on, plainly intent on persuading him about his honesty — as if Sherlock would ever doubt him, which felt like another blow — leaning some on the table, one finger even hitting it as if to make a point, literally.

"I _know _you don't want… Remember I didn't want you to find out!" He sighed, and then went on kind of helplessly: "Hell, I'm not even sure _I_ want anyway… It's most probably just a phase and—

That surprised Sherlock and had him side-tracked.

"A phase?"

John had just said it was a phase. More important maybe, he wanted it to be a phase. So: Case a) for the time being, definitely. But Sherlock couldn't deny that he hoped this could be just that, a phase. It seemed an unlikely easy solution to the problem, especially as they were constantly together (Sherlock relegated right away any related to that fact considerations about leaving for some time again as his very last option), but Sherlock scanned his recent memories of John interacting with women, and found a very definite clue.

"You checked Sally Donovan out only three days ago!"

John looked at him with a mix of surprise and unbelief. Then his eyebrows knitted as he searched for his own memories. Then John chuckled, and Sherlock was overwhelmed with how much he had missed the sound of it.

"Yes, I did, didn't I?" Another chuckle, even louder. "And I don't even like her anymore."

At any other time, the always rational part of Sherlock might have told John that the fact that Sally never ever neglected one possibility actually made her a good cop. At the moment though, Sherlock could only chuckle back.

And just like that, the tension left the room and they shared a good, old-fashioned laugh — John as always being much noisier and even giggling (which Sherlock never found inappropriate, no matter his teachings, because it was so _John_), but Sherlock too actually felt kind of giddy. It was mostly out of sudden, may-be-temporary relief, clearly, but it went beyond that: it was their first laugh since he had come back, Sherlock realised; and such an undeniable rekindling of their bond was simply exalting.

They both felt lighter and much more optimistic about the whole issue after it. John went to read the newspaper, maybe taking some time off but for once since weeks actually staying in the room. Sherlock started heating a few chemicals up; an experiment he had done before, which allowed him to think without being obvious about it. Sherlock wasn't classifying the problem as solved yet, but if there was one chance for this to be just a phase, then Sherlock wouldn't let it go to waste. Women. He needed women. The scheming resumed.

The generally inept 'social medias' could be useful after all. It was incredible the amount of things you could learn with a simple google-ing up of a name nowadays. And there was a never ending list of people contacting them. He could temporarily adjust his selection standards, huh…

_AN: Yep, Sherlock still doesn't exactly understand how sentiment works. *sigh* I feel like giving him a cuddle…_


	6. Chapter 6

JOHN

John didn't notice it right away.

After cases involving for example comic characters or demonic dogs, John knew better by now than to have prejudices because a case seemed weird — actually, the more a case seemed silly, the more expectations John had about it. But the cases Sherlock accepted lately didn't look very challenging at first, and surprisingly _stayed _unsurprising.

When questioned after the first of such an occurrence, Sherlock had said that he had decided to investigate that case because he had been too bored to refuse even a boring case… But it was now thrice that that _excuse_ — John knew that simple matters were usually more prone to irritate Sherlock further than to make him feel better — had been offered.

So, on their way to Angelo's (yes, the solved-case meal ritual had been resumed right their first case after Sherlock's return), after — can you imagine! — returning a strayed cat to its rightful owner, John was pondering about Sherlock's more than probable ulterior motive when the pieces clicked.

"A lovely person, that Amanda, wasn't she?"

Lovely? Since when Sherlock took notice of that kind of things anyway? And Sherlock was eyeing him while trying not to let it be noticed... You bet it got crystal clear, right then.

It came as a shock: Sherlock, playing matchmaker?!

It was infuriating how time and again Sherlock took decisions on his own which could affect them both – and there was pain, still, about the last time it had happened: the wound wasn't raw anymore, because Sherlock was alive and thriving; but the scar would never fade.

About this time in particular though, John couldn't decide if he should feel more offended or hurt. But he decided it was simply Sherlock being Sherlock (theorising and testing potential solutions, and being just too innocent and so genuinely unaware about how human relations actually worked to realise how this one could either feel like a diminishing or a rejection, or both, in John's eyes), and finally chose to simply relish on the fact that Sherlock would go SO out of his ways as to voluntarily endure such commonplace affairs _for him _— _for them_.

He was still kind of amazed when they took their habitual seats. Billy hurried over to their table with the usual cutlery and candle. And suddenly John felt like thunderstruck.

"We won't need this."

John instantly took the candle out of Billy's startled hands before he could leave: "Don't mind him. Of course we'll have the candle. Thanks Billy."

Sherlock looked both surprised and contrite, and started as soon as they were alone: "But I thought—"

John tried to calm down. He was definitely overreacting, and he knew it. But Sherlock refusing the by now sacrosanct Angelo's candle, the first time they were eating there since the revelation of is current 'troubles', was apparently the droplet that was finally making the vase overflow.

"I understand, Sherlock, and I'm actually grateful that you actually HAD the thought. But the thing is, being protective can have the counter effect of what one hopes to achieve." Sherlock was eyeing him with utter attention now, clearly expecting further explanation, and John couldn't help but sigh helplessly. "You want to know what hurts me? What hurts me is you jumping off from a building and believing I could ever be all right enough after it." Sherlock seemed ready to cut in, so John quickly went on. "You've explained your reasons, and I've forgiven you, simply because you are the most important person ever, to me, and because, luckily for you, I know you enough to understand how you work, even when you act like a massive idiot, and I will never condemn you for being you, because I like you just as you are. But it was wrong, Sherlock, in so many ways." John deliberately dropped the still-way-too-sensitive, uncomfortable subject and came back to the situation at hand. "And what hurts me is you suddenly trying to couple me to the 'lovely' women who by chance call on us for help, and objecting about a bloody candle you never gave a fuck for before, all because of my actual silly condition regarding you. But that candle here? I've earned it. You can't take it away now as if it means nothing, because it is intimacy, and so yes, newsflash, we ARE a couple. What we do, or better said don't do, in bed or wherever, is completely irrelevant. You pick food from my plate without feeling you need to ask for it, for God's sake."

Damn. That wasn't a vase, it was a dam, huh. John inhaled deeply, twice, to close the floodgates.

Sherlock was silent. He looked quite stunned, actually. Then he cleared his throat — maybe to see if he was now allowed to speak — and finally talked as John kept silent.

"Noted. It won't happen again."

John only sighed helplessly in answer. What was Sherlock speaking about? The candle? The matchmaking? The faking of his own death? Probably strictly the first, but maybe all three. It didn't matter anyway.

John knew that Sherlock meant what he said. And he knew that Sherlock always kept true to his words. But there was little solace in that knowledge. Because Sherlock had already uttered those words, but had nevertheless played him again only a few weeks later; so the first 'it won't happen again', after the Baskerville case, hadn't been a pledge not to hurt him deliberately in the future: what had been promised was not to drug him again, at least not through a drink, and even, not through sugared coffee. Sherlock was nothing if not practical, and technical. So the only certitudes John got now from the second occurrence of that promise were that Sherlock wouldn't refuse the candle next time at Angelo's; that Sherlock would stop taking cases simply for their potential involvement of a John fitting woman; and that Sherlock would never jump again from the roof of St Bart's and have John witness it. It said nothing about others restaurant's candles, nor about actually stopping to search for a possibly suitable mate for him, nor, unfortunately, about jumping from others roofs — and even less about not faking his death once more…

So, there was a crux, knowing this, because how could he ever trust Sherlock again? And yet, precisely because he knew this, the frightening truth was that John actually didn't mind; that John could simply accept it and get past it. People always made promises they never kept in the end, after all. At least, Sherlock would keep his, if only on his own terms. And John could acknowledged that, if only that.

"Good."

Sherlock nodded, but kept eyeing him somehow hesitantly.

"And you should know that you are, to me, too."

_The most important person_. John couldn't help it, he smiled at the rare and thus precious expression of sentiment. Then he smiled even wider as he saw the evident worry in Sherlock's features had eased away thanks to his first smile.

He shared indulgently. "I know. Why would I otherwise be able to disregard the bullshit you constantly put me through."

Sherlock grinned — a much more common expression on his face, and one that always warmed John's heart, when it was the grin which lit his eyes up, as it was now, because Sherlock joking was not that common, and was a privilege bestowed upon John only: "Because you're an idiot?"

John playfully rolled his eyes in return. "Look who's talking... Now, I'm starving. Shall we order?"

Living with Sherlock was still the same. Never boring, often nerves testing, and always just so, _so_ right.


	7. Chapter 7

_Two days later._

John entered the flat and blinked. Twice.

Sherlock was thinking (nothing unusual there), sprawled on the sofa with his eyes closed and his hands joined (nothing unusual there either), wearing a thick woollen jumper that looked like one of John's and a pair of really wide jeans ?

/

John, before noticing the trousers (those definitely weren't his — speaking more about the style than about the length, even though indeed they were obviously too long to be his), had first thought that Sherlock might have unintentionally (or not: he wouldn't put it past that man to decide on a boring day that he HAD to test RIGHT NOW every possible way to destroy every possible kind of fabrics) burned — either with acids or actual flames; or both — or/and torn apart his whole wardrobe and damaged too on the process whatever he had been wearing to the point that it couldn't be worn anymore either, and had borrowed one of his jumpers until the priority delivery from his usual tailor would arrive.

(Of course Sherlock had a regular tailor, from whom he ordered, thanks to a simple phone call, shirts and suits and everything, whenever he needed anything. It wasn't vanity at all – he didn't even choose his own clothes but just asked for example for three shirts and trusted the man's decisions over colours, patterns or textures. It was just how he had been raised, probably. And it was efficient, which was certainly the only thing that mattered to Sherlock in the end: he only had to go once a year for measurements, which was far less time-consuming than shopping, indeed. And it was all SO _naturally_ Sherlock that John hadn't actually been surprised when he had found this out just a few weeks after moving into 221B; he had even kind of felt for a second like _he_ was the unusual (and senseless) one in the flat.)

But 1) the flat wasn't a mess; and 2) the sleeves were the right length, and therefore too long for the jumper to be John's.

/

John though didn't want to disturb Sherlock — the only logical explanation John could think of was that he must be on a case, to be 1) lost in thoughts enough as to not notice that he had come in, and 2) in such a _disguise_, right? — so John went directly to the kitchen in order to unpack the groceries.

Nevertheless, his eyes couldn't help but get back to the surreal vision on the couch, and progressively stayed gazing longer and longer. It started as puzzling over the kind of case which would explain Sherlock's actual attires, but progressively turned into puzzling over the fact that Sherlock looked _different_. Those clothes made him look somehow younger — not meaning strictly younger though, because John had already seen Sherlock's demanding four-year old inner child, multiple times, and this was clearly something else…

John struggled to find the right word. Sherlock appeared… less in control? kind of fragile, due to the unusually loose, oversized fitting on his lean form? John's hand tingled from a sudden, novel desire to ruffle the normally awe-inspiring curls (John knew the insides of the bathroom cupboards enough to know that Sherlock did nothing at all with his hair, except thoroughly but quickly hair-dry it in order not to catch a cold), and John finally found the utterly shocking yet undeniably right adjective he had been looking for: _attainable _!?

To John, Sherlock (no matter how childish he could behave or how often he could look upon him as a sort of guide on some few subjects) always felt _above_. Not superior, mind you; simply above, literally: deity-like, somehow alien, unequivocally unique (and he was taller, too, all right…); even his tantrums were self-defining, and his numerous flaws felt worship-worthy. Sherlock called only for the most superlative combinations: he was spectacularly ignorant, splendidly annoying, exceptionally and mind-blowingly clever, superbly arrogant, gloriously regalian (even in ruffled PJ's), and always, _always_ magnificent, on both extremes of any spectrum you'd try to place him into. Sherlock was too much, or not enough; he was _never_ average — and even less 'attainable'.

So. This felt more than a bit not good, you bet, because John realised with embarrassment that he was, in fact, 'enjoying the view'…

John had acknowledged right away that Sherlock was beautiful: not in an obvious, poster-in-a-trendy-magazine way; but in an ethereal, eternal way which held you captivated once you had noticed it — and John was straight, but he had eyes.

He had never been physically affected by that fact before that instant though; it had been nothing more than that, _a fact_, which wouldn't have been out of place in a list such as 'the sun is blinding, the sky is blue, the grass is green, and Sherlock is beautiful' — simple truths that only a blind would fail to see.

The (temporary!) attraction that had developed lately hadn't changed that fact much either: John reacted to Sherlock being Sherlock — deducting, scrutinizing, and such: more brainy and sentimental causes than actual physical pull. At least John had thought, until now... But, with Sherlock lying there looking like a man instead of the habitually untouchable (in a sacred sense) statue, John couldn't not notice how truly magnificent Sherlock was, physically speaking too! Hell. Who would have _ever _thought that one _fluffy_ jumper and some _baggy _jeans would make such a difference ? And, more important, how could John successfully erase that vision from his brain…

John remembered himself to refocus on emptying the last bag.

Sherlock let out a sigh. "This isn't working."

John was shaken out of his contemplations and the meaning of Sherlock's words hit him as he met Sherlock's concerned gaze: the clothes weren't related to a case; they were related to his idiotic current situation.

John went through three different emotions in a matter of seconds. First, he was stunned. Then, he felt guilty. And then he realised that Sherlock had gone shopping, and it broke through his self-conscious mood: the idea alone of Sherlock in front of a stack of clothes was laugh-inducing; so, reality? added to the terrible irony of the result being so contrary to the wished outcome? John chuckled, even though agreeing with honesty. "Not really. No."

Sherlock made the usual irritated helpless little noise he made whenever something displeased him because it wasn't how things should work and started pacing back and forth: "I bought the most shapeless, colour-neutral clothes I could find. Why isn't it working? It doesn't make any sense!"

The contrast though between the robotic moves and the wide-fit clothes wasn't exactly improving John's state of mind: it only made Sherlock look _cute_, for God's sake! So John worked on sobering up enough to help Sherlock sort things out, and asked with a genuine interest (as always): "How did such a massive brain as yours come up with such a silly idea anyway?"

Sherlock looked offended, yet puzzled; and the need to know, of course, won over. "Well, from past observations it should have been effective."

"Observations?"

Sherlock eyed him with his customary 'do I really have to explain the obvious?' expression. "Well, you! Your preference goes to clothes in which you feel comfortable, and they are generally wide and cover up your musculature." John must have done a funny face then because Sherlock, after a 'Come on!' trademark sigh, quickly added "You were in the Army, and I've heard you doing push-ups and such regularly enough over the years to know that you stayed fit" before coming back on tracks. "But when you went out for dates you dressed up, and the lines of your body were more visible. Conclusion: when one wants to be inconspicuous, one should put on wide clothes."

John fought the urge to giggle: in what universe would Sherlock _ever_ be inconspicuous anyway? "I guess you never heard about the long skirt versus short skirt thing, huh." The sceptical look Sherlock gave him was the only answer he needed, so John explained. "Sometimes, the less you see, the more you want to see. Fascination for the unknown and such…"

Sherlock seemed to process this, and then nodded. And then he nearly gave John a heart-attack: "Should you see me naked then?" he asked seriously, hands on the down edge of the jumper, ready to pull it off.

John's heart missed a beat and John was ready to bet that he was blushing.

In anybody else's voice, those words would have been laced with innuendo, and John's body felt like reacting accordingly to that knowledge, especially as it had already been titillated just moments before. But this was Sherlock's voice, and it was to the point and practical, and there was only method and pure logic in it; and it was just so innocent and so quintessentially _Sherlock_ that it was positively endearing — which only made John's heart and brain yearn even more for that gorgeous man. Vicious circle, once more. He was doomed, maybe, wasn't he?

So John helplessly shrieked: "No !", waving of his hands included. Sherlock's hands left the jumper and John calmed down enough to stutter an answer to Sherlock's ever inquisitive eyes. "No. I… I was just explaining to you that you actually did not take _everything_ into account when you theorized (pointing at the clothes) this… I was speaking… generalities, and generalities rarely apply when you're concerned anyway... In that particular case, I… I think it gets my attention because you look different than normal, I mean, than your usual... So. I appreciate the gesture; but if you're trying to, huh, help, well... Suits, gown, PJ's; any combination thereof is fine. But now isn't the best time to reconsider your clothing style."

There was a beat of silence. And then Sherlock made a tactical retreat to his bedroom to change: "I'll be right back."

John suddenly wondered about the terrible fate that most probably awaited the now redundant clothes and couldn't help but shout at Sherlock's back. "Do whatever you want with the pants, but do keep the jumper: it might turn out handy next time you accidentally damage the heating system in the heart of winter…"

John shook his head, smiling to the ceiling. All those things Sherlock did, for him, for them, lately… After all John had been through, it was _nice_, definitely: the whole situation was problematic, but at least John would never be able to doubt again about Sherlock's attachment to him. So, all in all, this was a very good thing…

_AN: Confession time. The 'with a minor adaptation' arc in my verse is actually based upon a silly thought I had a few months ago of Sherlock in baggy jeans and woollen jumper asking John if he should see him naked. It was such a funny thing (and hum, a nice vision), I just HAD to write it down __ So I hope you enjoyed this particular bit as much as I do, because it is what started this whole bit of silly fluffiness _


End file.
